| Poems: 160817 - August 16th, 2017 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/08/22 19:10 |
160817A
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The morning herd
rumbles in the distance
the way buffalo used to rumble
as they raced to a far cliff
fatally stepping forward.
Millions of pretensions
emulating usefulness,
talking to themselves out loud
and grimacing intently,
from behind sheets of glass.
Everyone else is kept salivating
for a thin straw of a chance
prize that sadistic masters jerk away,
desperate victims groping toward it,
only to end as broken as slaves.
We are the people of the iron horse
pretending that we tread softly
on rubber horseshoes.
Our familiar saddle bags bulging
with acceptable old ideas.
Hardly anyone listens to anyone
in between stuffing their own ears
with the cotton batten of pop songs
meaninglessly meaning anything
to anyone tuned in to tuning out.
The wealthy are sold commodified solitude
while the poor are incarcerated in it.
No one can ever really be alone,
but everyone can be secretly lonely,
forever running with a familiar herd.
Love has become a lottery prize,
that a few can actually chance to win
by buying enough random tickets.
That too depends on Nobodaddy
providing them with enough allowance.
The ultimate con game of empty shells
confined to eggshell painted spaces,
and made thankful for emptiness.
A few mass produced replicas
having taken the place of culture.
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160817B
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Your cabbage head future
sliced and diced up.
Something that gets marinated
in dreams turned sour.
Illusion of accessibility
given to crippling conditions.
You failed to afford a lawyer
to review the fine print of life.
The meat between your ears
has ended up smoked.
Your goose is cooked,
and you failed to feather your nest.
The in and out
has you outed again.
They collected the finder's fees
on every one of your losses.
You jumped in
to where everyone was leaving.
No one ever told you
that you entered by the out door.
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160817C
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You are shocked at the discovery
that your digitized soul was made forfeit.
Having fallen into the abyss of words
that fill the endless in between
of binary heaven and hell.
A global village drowning in information,
as the truth is washed away,
past the sandbags of history.
It all depends on the actual address
as to what type of hook you are on.
They say you lack experience,
and simply do not know how to do it.
That it is easy for anyone
who has acquired the right knack,
going from generation to generation.
A mere particle of observation,
suffering from an uncertainty principle,
as to all those unfortunate entanglements
that cow bell and dog,
your isolated wave function.
You had to put your years into it,
only to pass every point of no return
on any of that investment.
No longer sure if you are a wave goodbye,
or a particle being swept away.
You feel as falsified
as would any counterfeit record.
A file bulging with secret criticisms,
carefully hidden by privacy laws
that deny you all access.
You are not what anyone wanted,
so find out what it is,
that no one will ever tell you.
You have not found it in you,
but it must be in your blood somewhere.
Chip off the old block,
abandoned at an end of the line.
You have to fill in all the blanks,
as if you know where you came from
and where you might be going.
You try to sell your self
only to be told you have nothing to offer.
Everyone has better options,
and not one of them missed their chances
the way you missed ALL of yours.
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160817D
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You step away from it,
only to watch it shatter.
The pieces rain down
creating variations on havoc.
Your big mistake
was to trouble yourself
with trying to make something of it.
That then entered the forbidden zone.
They like to push things over,
tumbling them over and over again.
Another way to get rolled,
until it all feels like a constant shakedown.
The signal drifts in and out of range,
offering no way to lock in on it.
Visions of an insane programmer
repeatedly pushing all the wrong buttons.
The definition of being a prisoner
is that you can never find the right people.
Walk around the circuit
if you need any more emphasis on that.
That door is always closed,
and you will never open it again.
Collision avoidance sounds a steady beep
as everyone backs out.
They made you believe that you had it,
but it proved out to be nothing but a disease,
picked from a large expanding catalogue
where everyone can have something.
The rumoured message never got to you,
for an endless number of possible reasons.
It would have changed your life,
if you had been destined to receive it.
No one likes the graffiti you sprayed
over top of the formalized accounts.
You were found disturbingly guilty
of disrupting another big lie.
All that you needed was marching boots
to get you solidly in line.
A conscientious objector
who failed to destroy the specified target.
After that your life is entirely crutches,
and unhealed, festering, wounds.
You wrap it all up in bandages
of trying to find something else to do.
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160817E
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There are only faces in a crowd,
and I have long given up
on the idea of our going for coffee.
It was another failed idea.
My empty mailbox
speaks endless volumes
as to how that always goes.
I rifle through the formalities
that come under official letterheads,
along with the bills to be paid.
I carefully file away
all of those impersonal connections,
for potential future reference.
Those are the memorable facts,
and you have become the fiction.
Something I cannot write in,
in any desired or agreeable way,
into the routines of my boring life
as it continually dwindles and fades
into bureaucratic formalities.
Lights that go out slowly,
until I can no longer imagine you,
suddenly stepping out of the shadows
to make yourself known to me.
My eyes having adjusted
to adding up the dark shapes of numbers,
and worrying about balancing accounts
so as not to get overdrawn.
A condition of forever terrified,
and appearances in the mirror.
There is no way out anymore,
of any of those vicious circles
that choked off any association.
Freedom is the same as any dream
that never really ever happens.
I misplace another password
that gives me access to myself,
having to look it up,
the way I used to vainly hope
I would someday look you up.
I have to admit I never understood
anything about life.
I had always imagined
it would all be so very different
from any of this.
I never once thought
that it would all come to this.
The fact that we would never connect
and never go for coffee
without formalities being involved.
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160817F
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Invisible walls
are usually more painful
than the ones that can be sprayed
with slogans.
With no solid attributions
there is no one to blame,
for the endless coils
of mental razor wire on top.
It cuts you up,
and leaves you,
without one drop of red courage
to show for anything.
Cancelled meetings,
and endless rearrangements,
of pointless schedules,
as if actually going somewhere.
Not even a fat chance in Hell
of meeting up,
with the right one as of yet,
but still running the glass maze.
Might glimpse a way out,
only to find no way to get to it,
and leaving a trail of crumbs
gets you nowhere.
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